Thursday brought the season’s preparations to an end, saw the Second Team disband—with noisy and appropriate ceremonies—and witnessed the appearance of the Football Number of the “Doubleay.” The weekly was still brimming with optimism on the subject of the Kenly game, but, like more important publications, it was careful to leave itself an avenue of retreat guarded by “Ifs.” Nevertheless the two-page article was encouraging reading to those who wanted Alton Academy to win and who were timorous about expecting her to. Of course there was the usual biographical paragraph regarding each of the players and the absorbing statistics of age, height and weight. And, finally, came “the probable line-up for Saturday’s game,” as follows:

Bert rather expected Chick to voice objection to being relegated to second place by the “Flubdub,” for the impression about the Academy was that he had proved his right to start the game, an impression that Chick doubtless shared. But there wasn’t even a murmur from him, and Bert marveled. Bert had his own problem to solve, which was why Ness’s name had been set down for the right half-back position. Ness hadn’t played at right more than half a dozen times during the fall and surely not since mid-season. He was first substitute for Storer, and as such a very valuable member for the team. In the end, after mentally considering all sorts of backfield combinations that included Tyron and Keys and Walsh and even Parkhurst, Bert concluded that the “Flubdub” had merely made a mistake. The “Flubdub” had been known to!

Commencing Tuesday, there was a cheer meeting every night that week. Mr. Cade had advised the members of the squad to stay away from them, and they did, but that didn’t prevent them from hearing a good deal of the enthusiasm, for almost always the gathering in the auditorium, so soon as the arranged program was concluded, adjourned to the campus and started a fresh and impromptu celebration which usually kept up until a faculty member appeared on the scene. Friday evening the outdoor portion of the event was more than ordinarily prolonged and hectic, the students marching from hall to hall, pausing in front of each for songs or cheers or both, and finally winding up in front of the Principal’s residence. In the dormitories, non-participants—squad members almost without exception—leaned from open windows and looked and hearkened with varying emotions. In 21 Upton, Bert and Chick and Dutch Kruger foregathered at the casement and watched the ragged procession moving across the sward from Haylow to the little mansard-roofed house that stood by itself on the south edge of the campus. They were singing “Gray-and-Gold,” and heard at that distance it sounded rather impressive, rather stirring.

The song ended and the cheering began. The dark mass spread fan-shaped in front of the house. A light appeared in the hall. The cheering subsided. “Can you hear him?” whispered Dutch. Chick shook his head. “No. Just a word now and then. Not missing much, though, for Mac says the same thing every year!” “‘Self-sacrifice and devotion,’” murmured Bert. “I got that much.” The audience broke into a long “A-a-aye!” of applause, was silent again. Chick yawned and drew away from the window. “He’s good for another ten minutes, fellows.” “Well, I’m not,” said Bert. Dutch held up his hand and waved an imaginary megaphone. “Now, fellows!” he cried earnestly, aping a cheer leader. “Three long sneers for Kenly! Every one into it! All together and let’s go!” The imaginary megaphone was tossed aside, Dutch threw up his arms, bent sideways, twiddled his fingers and swung his hands in an arc as he straightened his body.

“Sni-i-if! Sni-i-if! Sni-i-if! Ken-le-e-ey!”

“Rotten!” scolded Dutch, shaking a fist in their faces. “They couldn’t hear that across the field! Try it again and make it good, fellows! Come on!”

“Can’t,” laughed Chick. “I’ve bust my sniffer!”

“Wait till I have a cold, Dutch,” said Bert. “Mac’s through. They’re cheering again.” He went back to the window.

“Doctor McPherson! Doctor McPherson! Doctor McPherson!”

Then Freeman Naughton’s voice in the moment of succeeding silence, and another cheer, loud and measured, ending with “Alton! Alton! ALTON!” The throng dispersed then, came trailing back over the grass in ones and twos and larger groups, still singing, laughing, joyously noisy. “Sometimes,” remarked Dutch, leaning over Bert’s shoulder, “it seems to me the guys who get the most fun out of football are the ones who don’t play!”

“You said a mouthful,” agreed Chick.

There was a final session in the gymnasium Friday evening. Some thirty-five youths sat on the benches in front of the blackboard and three coaches faced them. There was a much graver note apparent to-night, the coaches spoke in lower tones, there was less mild horse-play amongst the fellows. Mr. Cade drew and figured with his chalk and asked questions, and now and then one or two of the players arose and walked or trotted in front of the benches in explanation of a point. There was no more drill, however, and only Mr. Cade made anything approaching a speech, and that didn’t bear much resemblance. After he had ended he held up a hand, anticipating Jim Galvin, who had sprung to his feet. “No cheering, fellows! Leave that for to-morrow. And see that you’ve something to cheer for! Every one straight to the dormitories now and get to bed before ten o’clock. Squad dismissed!”

But not all the squad, for he detained Ted Ball and Chick and Bert. Mr. Lake and Mr. McFadden remained also, deep in a discussion. Mr. Cade straddled a bench and brought forth a voluminous document from a pocket. “Thought you’d be interested, Burton,” he said. “And you, too, Hollins. Ball knows about it.” Chick accepted the three sheets of paper, unfolded them and read, with Bert looking over his shoulder.

The letter was addressed to Mr. Cade and ran as follows:

Followed two sheets on which were drawn, rather neatly, three football plays, among them Number 14. There were one or two minor inaccuracies, but any one familiar with such matters could easily have fathomed the diagrams. Chick handed the documents back, looking questioningly at Mr. Cade. “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked anxiously.

“We’re going to use the plays; that is, that 14; the others are already discarded, you know. The whole business is a bluff, just as we suspected. You can read that in every line.”

“Gee, I hope so!” muttered Chick. “Aren’t you going to do anything to Devore, sir?”

“N-no, not exactly.” Mr. Cade smiled. “It may comfort you to know, however, that Joe Manter—I mentioned Joe, didn’t I?—has covered the money put up by Mr. Devore’s—er—syndicate. About two hundred dollars, I believe. Joe got odds of four to five.”

“You mean he’s bet two hundred dollars that we’ll win?” asked Chick incredulously.

The coach nodded. “About a hundred and seventy, I believe. I don’t know how much of the two hundred belongs to Devore, but if Kenly loses he’s bound to be unpopular around town for awhile!”

“A hundred and seventy’s a good deal of money for a newspaper reporter to have,” observed Bert. Mr. Cade met his gaze and nodded gravely.

“He didn’t put it all up himself, Hollins. I understand that three or four others went into it. Personally I don’t approve of betting. In the present case, however, as a means of applying punishment where it’s richly deserved—well, I find justification for it!”

“But—but, gosh,” exclaimed Chick. “If we don’t win the game Manter loses his money!”

“Undeniably, Burton,” replied the coach cheerfully. “There is generally an element of uncertainty in betting.”

“Well, I hope we win,” sighed Chick.

“And so do I. If Joe loses his wager—” and Mr. Cade glanced briefly at Bert— “I shall feel, to some extent, as though it were a personal loss!” He arose in token that the conference was at an end and the three boys said good night. Outside, Ted chuckled.

“Bet I know who the three or four are,” he said. “He and McFadden and Lake!”

“Do you suppose so?” asked Bert. “Say, we’ve got one more reason for winning, Chick; to part Devore from his money!”

“I’d like to part him from his head,” growled Chick.

As the chums entered Upton, Bert descried Tommy Parish ascending the stairs. Tommy looked back and accelerated his pace, but in the next corridor he was still in sight as Chick opened the door of Number 21, and as Bert prepared to follow Chick in a loud hiss came from farther down the hall. Tommy was beckoning. Bert obeyed the summons and Tommy came half-way back and spoke in whispers.

“Say, Bert, I thought you’d like to know that I didn’t spill that to Johnny. I meant to, but—well, it seemed too rotten mean. Maybe we’ll get beaten to-morrow, but—but there are some things a fellow just can’t do, eh? Well, so long. À chaque jour suffit sa peine, old fÈve!”

Bert felt a bit disappointed in himself that night. Chick was very evidently nervous and wakeful and would have talked on and on long after the light was out, but for the life of him Bert couldn’t keep his eyes open more than twenty minutes after his head was on the pillow! Recalling the confessions of Ted Ball and Lum Patten, he concluded that there was something missing in his make-up. He pictured Ted lying awake with Coles Wistar reading poetry to him through the small hours and felt a trifle sorry for himself. Quite evidently he was missing an excitement, a thrill, that belonged to a normal football player on the eve of a big game. He answered Chick more and more at random, his voice growing sleepier and sleepier, until finally—

He awoke to a gray world. There was mist on the window panes and the steam pipes were clattering loudly. Chick still slumbered, the bed-clothes tossed and snarled about him. The clock said six-forty-seven. Bert tried to go back to sleep for the remaining twelve minutes, but he couldn’t. If excitement had passed him by last night it was in full possession of him this morning. He swung out of bed, shivering, and looked reprovingly at the misted windows. What a day for the Big Game!